Post by Bubba Kush on Sept 20, 2012 8:01:12 GMT -8
(This post contains strong language, violence, racist remarks, and sexist remarks. Jean-Luc is kind of an asshole. You've been warned.)
The drink I bought for myself remains untouched. Even the unappetizing golden bubbles and the fart smell of hops was tempting after so many years of sobriety. Yet I do not drink. It may be in part all of the dead foxes, owls, weasels, and hares all around the bar.
"Whatsa matter? Ya don't like it?" The bum's soiled sleeve soaked up whatever booze was left on the bar. He didn't notice. He doesn't even notice what bar he's in, or that he's said the same damn owl joke four times already. A discreet negro was sinking the 9 ball on a faded billiards table to our left, and two laborers were grumbling over a pitcher behind me, but otherwise we were alone with the bartender. Me and my bum.
"I do. I just don't think I can keep it down like I used to." There was a stench in the Boozehound tonight, a stale smell of breath and bread. I've only visited this dive twice before and on both occasions the place had distinct foulness. This time it was a primeval smell, like one would find amongst apes in a zoo.
"Aw, c'mon. You aint that drunk yet, you're still talking good."
No argument here. I take a drink, and immediately spit it back out on the ground. The spray of foam disappears into the darkness of the bar floor, leaving but a little on my pant leg.
"Aw geez, maybe you had too much." The bum declared the Boozehound 'his', though in truth the bartender is so amused by his pet bum that he lets him stay. Enough patrons buy him enough drinks to keep him occupied, so all parties involved watch the sorry son of bitch slowly drink to death. He takes my drink without asking.
"Maybe, though I had to stop drinking after I met my wife." The bum looked down a moment. Shame. He wasn't always a bum. I have him.
"They do those things to ya. I had me a wife once, er, twice. Both times I got cleaned out. Number two left one day an took everything with her. Even the damn ice-cube thingies. What kind of fucked up bitch takes the ice-cube thingies?" Perhaps a bum isn't the best place to find wisdom, but if all stripes of men suffer the same crimes from women, from Father all the way down to this gutter, perhaps there is some truth to it. Claire certainly proved the point, will Klara as well?
"I can only imagine, my wise, bohemian friend." The stuffed hares and weasels looked half-asleep, but the owls had fierce expressions. They held their own in their last moments, but now they are encased in lacquer and observing Jean-Luc and his bum.
He laughed, exposing the corruption in his mouth that surrounded his remaining teeth. His breath reeked of raw onion and beer, which came in waves with each guffaw. Being a bum must require a constant, concerted effort; it is a level of indifference that cannot be anything but exhausting.
The negro approached the bar and threw three bills onto the counter. He left, but not before giving me a cold stare. I gladly returned it with a grin and thought of days when his kind was punished by law. My attention then returned to the bum as he began poking me in chest. The laborers in their coveralls watched, the bartender watched, and so did the vermin and birds of prey.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah I know you. I know yooooou." He pointed a gnarled finger squarely at my nose and it looked like his hand had black french tips. I almost bit it off out of instinct. "You fellas are ll the same, coming down here with your ties and shirts. You just slummin to get away from the misses!"
"You have no idea." The laborers have stopped grumbling and even the bartender has stared listening in. Klara is waiting for me. Now is the time.
"Sure I do, ya running from the ol' sperm bank!"
"You know you fucking disgust me."
The bum was taken aback, even a little angry. The beast inside of me began to awake.
"What did ya say to me?"
"You are disgusting, how many times have you shit yourself in those clothes?" The beast smiles within me, but I must sate it later. Now is not the time for violence. Behind me the workmen begin chuckling. Klara and I plotted this part carefully; I can't blow it now. "And the two of you can shut your fucking mouths as well, goddamn slaves."
Both laborers got up and one went so far as to slam his fists on the table whilst doing so. The bum gathered his wits and courage as well, now that he had allies.
"Who do you think you-"
"We're gonna kick-"
The bartender reluctantly walks over, "Look, buddy-"
I pull the green stack of $5,000 and hold it for all to see. Silence.
"Do you guys want this?" They do, but the shock of the moment has paralyzed them. Must act quickly. I set the stack down and reach over the bar for the 151 Bacardi. The bum got his nerve back the quickest and reached for the stack...
Thump! For a second the bum doesn't know what has happened, but when he looks down he finds the money pinned to the bar by a six inch blade. He gasps when he sees the black, thin fingernail and the sliver of fingertip next to a spot of blood on President Franklin's forehead.
Before the momentum is lost I quickly pour the pungent alcohol onto the currency. "Look at yourselves, the scum of the earth. Is it really worth struggling your whole lives for this?" I laugh at them with sincere contempt before setting fire to the stack.
"You crazy son-"
"What the hell's-"
"Get out of-"
Even the beast is screaming, demanding I flee from the fire. But I don't flee, instead I jump straight into it. I never had much choice, like these sorry sots, but now we'll see just what sort of army a Toreador can forge.
For once in my existence I surrender to the Jean-Luc that is vampire.
"Are you not men? Look at yourselves! I shit this much money a week and you assholes are looking at me like I'm the fucking anti-christ." I draw a sleek, black pistol and point it at the bartender. I am fortune's fool. "Well, maybe I am."
"Woah, dude just take it easy-"
"I'm talking now, barkeep." I pull the trigger.
The men flinch and in the moment between the bullet shattering the bloody Maker's Mark and the sound of the keeper's body hitting the floor, I pray a silent prayer.
Dear god... no.
No.
May the devil guide my actions. May he grant me the discipline to move men with my presence.
May he claim me.
"There was a time when the measure of a man was not in what he owned, but what he took. How many times did this dead motherfucker overcharge you for watered-down beer? Really, you beg all day and wipe your ass with your clothes for a pint of Rainier? You two break your backs to give that asshole all of your earnings? You're goddamn right you didn't, but what choice have you? You must live by THEIR rules, work all day and come home to the same ungrateful bitch, who will one day pick and leave with everything you've got. Then what? Die a broken old man, like my father, and yours, and yours, and yours. Wall Street doesn't give a shit, Washington doesn't give a shit. They've already stolen theirs, so when are we going to take ours? When will we be men, when will we be free? We were kicked out of Eden, so I say return, rape, pillage, and burn the fucking garden down! How? We start by taking back everything this fucking bartender took from us and tearing the fucker apart! Then you will join us, join the movement. Join the brotherhood and become greater than a man."
I reach into the flames and grab the red blade. My flesh sizzles, the knife burns deep, but I hold the bloody, burning blade for all to see.
"Become a reaver, and take whatever you want. Let us finish our business here, I have someone you'd like to meet."
Sometime after I lead the men out towards Klara's car.
Would I kill for her? Yes. Would I become a monster for her? Yes. At all times a man must assess his worth. I have my queen, I have my hunger, and now I shall have my kingdom.
I fucking love you, my sweet demon.
"Klara, my dear? These men are ready for their interview."
The drink I bought for myself remains untouched. Even the unappetizing golden bubbles and the fart smell of hops was tempting after so many years of sobriety. Yet I do not drink. It may be in part all of the dead foxes, owls, weasels, and hares all around the bar.
"Whatsa matter? Ya don't like it?" The bum's soiled sleeve soaked up whatever booze was left on the bar. He didn't notice. He doesn't even notice what bar he's in, or that he's said the same damn owl joke four times already. A discreet negro was sinking the 9 ball on a faded billiards table to our left, and two laborers were grumbling over a pitcher behind me, but otherwise we were alone with the bartender. Me and my bum.
"I do. I just don't think I can keep it down like I used to." There was a stench in the Boozehound tonight, a stale smell of breath and bread. I've only visited this dive twice before and on both occasions the place had distinct foulness. This time it was a primeval smell, like one would find amongst apes in a zoo.
"Aw, c'mon. You aint that drunk yet, you're still talking good."
No argument here. I take a drink, and immediately spit it back out on the ground. The spray of foam disappears into the darkness of the bar floor, leaving but a little on my pant leg.
"Aw geez, maybe you had too much." The bum declared the Boozehound 'his', though in truth the bartender is so amused by his pet bum that he lets him stay. Enough patrons buy him enough drinks to keep him occupied, so all parties involved watch the sorry son of bitch slowly drink to death. He takes my drink without asking.
"Maybe, though I had to stop drinking after I met my wife." The bum looked down a moment. Shame. He wasn't always a bum. I have him.
"They do those things to ya. I had me a wife once, er, twice. Both times I got cleaned out. Number two left one day an took everything with her. Even the damn ice-cube thingies. What kind of fucked up bitch takes the ice-cube thingies?" Perhaps a bum isn't the best place to find wisdom, but if all stripes of men suffer the same crimes from women, from Father all the way down to this gutter, perhaps there is some truth to it. Claire certainly proved the point, will Klara as well?
"I can only imagine, my wise, bohemian friend." The stuffed hares and weasels looked half-asleep, but the owls had fierce expressions. They held their own in their last moments, but now they are encased in lacquer and observing Jean-Luc and his bum.
He laughed, exposing the corruption in his mouth that surrounded his remaining teeth. His breath reeked of raw onion and beer, which came in waves with each guffaw. Being a bum must require a constant, concerted effort; it is a level of indifference that cannot be anything but exhausting.
The negro approached the bar and threw three bills onto the counter. He left, but not before giving me a cold stare. I gladly returned it with a grin and thought of days when his kind was punished by law. My attention then returned to the bum as he began poking me in chest. The laborers in their coveralls watched, the bartender watched, and so did the vermin and birds of prey.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah I know you. I know yooooou." He pointed a gnarled finger squarely at my nose and it looked like his hand had black french tips. I almost bit it off out of instinct. "You fellas are ll the same, coming down here with your ties and shirts. You just slummin to get away from the misses!"
"You have no idea." The laborers have stopped grumbling and even the bartender has stared listening in. Klara is waiting for me. Now is the time.
"Sure I do, ya running from the ol' sperm bank!"
"You know you fucking disgust me."
The bum was taken aback, even a little angry. The beast inside of me began to awake.
"What did ya say to me?"
"You are disgusting, how many times have you shit yourself in those clothes?" The beast smiles within me, but I must sate it later. Now is not the time for violence. Behind me the workmen begin chuckling. Klara and I plotted this part carefully; I can't blow it now. "And the two of you can shut your fucking mouths as well, goddamn slaves."
Both laborers got up and one went so far as to slam his fists on the table whilst doing so. The bum gathered his wits and courage as well, now that he had allies.
"Who do you think you-"
"We're gonna kick-"
The bartender reluctantly walks over, "Look, buddy-"
I pull the green stack of $5,000 and hold it for all to see. Silence.
"Do you guys want this?" They do, but the shock of the moment has paralyzed them. Must act quickly. I set the stack down and reach over the bar for the 151 Bacardi. The bum got his nerve back the quickest and reached for the stack...
Thump! For a second the bum doesn't know what has happened, but when he looks down he finds the money pinned to the bar by a six inch blade. He gasps when he sees the black, thin fingernail and the sliver of fingertip next to a spot of blood on President Franklin's forehead.
Before the momentum is lost I quickly pour the pungent alcohol onto the currency. "Look at yourselves, the scum of the earth. Is it really worth struggling your whole lives for this?" I laugh at them with sincere contempt before setting fire to the stack.
"You crazy son-"
"What the hell's-"
"Get out of-"
Even the beast is screaming, demanding I flee from the fire. But I don't flee, instead I jump straight into it. I never had much choice, like these sorry sots, but now we'll see just what sort of army a Toreador can forge.
For once in my existence I surrender to the Jean-Luc that is vampire.
"Are you not men? Look at yourselves! I shit this much money a week and you assholes are looking at me like I'm the fucking anti-christ." I draw a sleek, black pistol and point it at the bartender. I am fortune's fool. "Well, maybe I am."
"Woah, dude just take it easy-"
"I'm talking now, barkeep." I pull the trigger.
The men flinch and in the moment between the bullet shattering the bloody Maker's Mark and the sound of the keeper's body hitting the floor, I pray a silent prayer.
Dear god... no.
No.
May the devil guide my actions. May he grant me the discipline to move men with my presence.
May he claim me.
"There was a time when the measure of a man was not in what he owned, but what he took. How many times did this dead motherfucker overcharge you for watered-down beer? Really, you beg all day and wipe your ass with your clothes for a pint of Rainier? You two break your backs to give that asshole all of your earnings? You're goddamn right you didn't, but what choice have you? You must live by THEIR rules, work all day and come home to the same ungrateful bitch, who will one day pick and leave with everything you've got. Then what? Die a broken old man, like my father, and yours, and yours, and yours. Wall Street doesn't give a shit, Washington doesn't give a shit. They've already stolen theirs, so when are we going to take ours? When will we be men, when will we be free? We were kicked out of Eden, so I say return, rape, pillage, and burn the fucking garden down! How? We start by taking back everything this fucking bartender took from us and tearing the fucker apart! Then you will join us, join the movement. Join the brotherhood and become greater than a man."
I reach into the flames and grab the red blade. My flesh sizzles, the knife burns deep, but I hold the bloody, burning blade for all to see.
"Become a reaver, and take whatever you want. Let us finish our business here, I have someone you'd like to meet."
Sometime after I lead the men out towards Klara's car.
Would I kill for her? Yes. Would I become a monster for her? Yes. At all times a man must assess his worth. I have my queen, I have my hunger, and now I shall have my kingdom.
I fucking love you, my sweet demon.
"Klara, my dear? These men are ready for their interview."